


Low Tide at Sea Garden

by Nakahara



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post S4, Reconciliation Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 15:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17625305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakahara/pseuds/Nakahara
Summary: After the harrowing events of S4, John seduces Sherlock with the help of an Anglo-norman poem and the little sea creature.





	Low Tide at Sea Garden

“My fair friend, this is me and you:  
Nor you without me, nor me without you.”  
(Marie de France: Chevrefoil)

At last, the helicopter appeared. Resembling an elegant red dragonfly rather than a machine in the twilight, it buzzed over the Tresco heliport for a while, then descended slowly and alighted on the grass-plot next to the wooden hangar. The noise, the murmur of the giant bumble-bee, intensified for a moment. But the blades of the rotor stopped quite quickly after that and the resulting silence flooded the lawn like a high tide.

Sherlock slipped out, stiffly holding a violin-case under his arm.

John, patiently waiting behind the wooden fence, exhaled in relief. He understood Sherlock's need to care for his long absent sister… still, you could never know with Eurus. One visit of Sherrinford sufficed HIM for a lifetime, that's for sure.

He hurried forth and joined his friend by the gate as they hit the road towards the cottage hired for the night. Sherlock took his time in Sherrinford facility and the ferry to Penzance was an impossibility now, the weather and the late season making even the future ship transport from the island dubious. But Sherlock probably didn't mind at all, John suspected. He was not made from steel after all and needed some time for himself after each visit of Eurus.

They wandered through the abandoned island road in wordless pensiveness from Sherlock's side. And John did not try to break this barrier of silence down. He damaged their friendly relations more recently and was used to see more reserved, business-like side of Sherlock from that moment on.

He knew something was off with Culverton Smith when he first set eyes on him. And yet he abandoned Sherlock and left him in the power of that sleazy, untrustworthy individual without any compunction. The heart-rending grief, the profound sense of hurt and rage and Sherlock's well-meant, but entirely crazy antics veiled his eyes to the truth and hardened his heart… Things that were so hard to repair now.

Cold wind was rising from the open, watery plains of the ocean. The white line of the coast shimmered in the distance, once near, once far, visible in the gaps in the shrubbery for a few moments and in the next moment invisible again. 

“Nasty weather,” remarked John when the especially strong gust hit him to the back like some spheric cudgel. 

Sherlock just mumbled something inaudible, tucked his scarf more tightly around the lower part of his face and stepped further into the darkness.

The next half-hour passed in absolute silence until the Sea Garden Cottages came into view.

With the tourist season ended, the resort stood under the cloudy sky empty. The cottages squinted at the sea, with their sombre windows resembling blind eyes. The building of the small restaurant, firmly locked up, slept their deep winter slumber at the water-front.

They found their cottage relatively quickly – it was the one next to the reef and the small beach underneath. The mechanical lock opened with a subtle click. After that, they entered the warm interior with relief.

John removed his heavy coat and peered at the narrow staircase leading into the bedroom above their heads.

“I checked up on it with the reception desk, but they confirmed that there's just one double-bed, Sherlock.” He said hesitatingly. “We'll have to share…”

“Not interested, thank you.” Sherlock replied briskly and switched on the hotel PC placed on the tiny table in the corner. “Besides, I have some work to do. I'll sleep here. You can go up there, it's all yours.”

He threw his Belstaff to the side and sat behind the PC, not sparing one last glance at John and immersing himself into the work immediately.

So the silent treatment on this God-forgotten place continued even here, so it seemed. John was a bit shocked, how resolutely Sherlock refused to share the bedroom and how he opted to stay downstairs on his own, in front of the glowing PC monitor instead. Yet the verdict was final, apparently. He was left on his own.

He climbed the staircase and sat down on the edge of the large, comfortable bed, feeling drained. The rapping of the keyboard buttons, as rapid as the volley of bullets, accompanied his musings.

Cold all over, John undressed wearily and numbly blinked at the total darkness for hours, until the sleep claimed him.

When he opened those eyes again, the sight took his breath away. 

The Isles of Scilly put their astonishing beauty fully on display. Behind the whole-wall window, the chain of dark, rugged rocks and islets, the silver line of the beach and the stormy coloured sea bathed in the dazzling sunlight, the stunning effect resembling the painting of some classic landscape painter. It pulled him to the glass panel in an instant. He stood there for a minute, admiring the view with relish.

Besides, it was a low tide. The boulders in front of the cottage were swarming with conspicuous wedge-shaped humps.

Having noticed that, he was struck with a sudden idea. 

After some necessary preparations, he crept downstairs and stepped over soundly-sleeping Sherlock sprawled on a carpet. PC monitor was still on, emitting the wan flare into the room. John took a quick look at it, reading the ominous words: “Il pleure dans mon coeur…” with a frown. 

His resolve hardened some more. He nodded determinedly and skilfully escaped the confines of the room.

The harsh, but fresh wind went right at him, reviving his entire being with its cold touch. John marched to the beach determinedly and as he reached the water-margin, he stepped on the rock, took off his shoes and put them to the side carefully. 

After that, he entered the icy waves and waded through them carefully. His legs felt totally numb, but thankfully, his prise was quite near, it smiled at him from the base of the nearest rock. He reached for it and gently separated it from the ragged surface of the reef.

“Are you picking mussels?” Sherlock's sleepy voice rasped over him some five minutes later, when he walked back from the edge of the coast, his jeans wet to the knees. “They contain microplastics, you know?”

John shook his head in amusement, it was so Sherlock to come with such a remark. But he didn't respond. Instead, he stepped close to his friend who blinked sleepily at him, huddled in his coat at the threshold. He seized his wrist in a gentle grip and deposited a small object into his hand: a single mussel.

“Deduce what it is!” He challenged Sherlock, a secretive smile dallying with the corners of his mouth.

Surprised, Sherlock hesitantly turned the tiny creature in his fingers. He hawed in a pedantic sort of way, the puzzlement evident on him: “A bivalve? A marine mollusc with a laterally compressed body, enclosed by a shell consisting of two hinged parts?”

John eyes twinkled. After that, he uttered the phrase, carefully pronouncing the half-forgotten dialect. It was a bit risky, but he knew Sherlock would understand – the knowledge of such trivia was his thing, anyway:

Bele amie, si est de nus,  
Ne vus sanz mei, ne mei sanz vus.

Sherlock startled. He blanched as if every drop of blood was drained from his face. He stood straighter after that and his features hardened, the wild blue eyes flashing with a steely flame.

“Whoa!” John pressed his palm to his friend's chest in a swift motion. “No, don't leave! I didn't mean to insult you…”

“Really?” Sherlock shook off his hand swiftly, his one word loud and harsh like the rumble of the clarion.

Persistent, John quickly placed his hand back at its rightful place and protested: “No, no, don't be like that! Just listen to me! Please…”

When he felt that he has his friend's full attention again, he lowered his voice and stared earnestly at Sherlock: “I didn't know how to reach you. You were not speaking and you were reading that depressive Verlaine again. That's why I came with that Mary de France silliness. But the verses… it was no joke, Sherlock. I meant every word.”

Sherlock's lips trembled and were pressed tightly together again. The detective averted his gaze with a bitter expression surfacing from beneath the glacier of his visage.

“Could have fooled me.” He replied, his voice choked with suppressed anger.

He wanted to break free again, but John held him fast and spoke quickly: “You don't believe me… It's my fault, I know. You went through a lot because of me the last year. I felt monumentally stupid after that Culverton Smith affaire. But you have forgiven me for that… You even overlook that unjust beating in a hospital…”

Their eyes locked firmly. John voice lowered even more, changing into a whisper: “Yet you could never forgive me, babbling about Irene Adler that way, am I right?”

A short moment of silence ensued. Sherlock stood motionless, frozen even, his slanted pale eyes wide and dark all of a sudden.

“What…?” He stammered after a while. “What does that mean? What exactly do you insinuate right now?”

John smiled thinly and scratched the area behind his ear absentmindedly: “All those things I said about Irene Adler… I take them back. I would not wish to have Adler around you. At all. I think… I think I'll manage the things she should be good at on my own.”

If Sherlock was surprised before, he was truly stupefied now. He certainly did not deduce THAT.

“But…” He gasped like a fish pulled out of water, clearly out of his depth. “But why… why didn't you say that right away? Why did you persuade me that you would like to see me with her?”

“I was in a bad place then, Sherlock. Everything was still so raw. And… there was the issue of that beating at that time. I didn't trust myself around you yet and I didn't believe you would be interested after all that happened.” John whispered grimly. “But now, after Sherrinford… I mean, what's the point of this damned wavering?”

His eyes met Sherlock's, head-on, boldly, with the soldierly determination: “I'm not the one for big speeches, Sherlock. So I'm just offering you this. Us. I would very much like to have it, if it's the thing you wish for too…”

His words slowly faded-away. He remained standing opposite Sherlock in a stiff, challenging pose, his heart on his sleeve, his stomach cold and heavy, fighting the slight bout of anxiety.

Sherlock coughed then and reclining his head to the side, announced: “It was honeysuckle in the original.”

John tacitly raised his eyebrows.

“It was the honeysuckle and the hazel Marie de France wrote about…. not the two parts of a mussel-shell.”

It slowly dawned on him. The relief washed over him like an outpour of the warm geyser. He felt the big grin growing on his face like the big, sunny dandelion.

“That binding vine, you mean? Something like this?” His arms sneaked up Sherlock's torso, entwining around his body like the plant in question. 

“Yes, quite.” Blue flaming gaze boring into John, Sherlock bent forwards inconspicuously.

Their kissed roughly, two pairs of firm lips fighting for dominance and as they exchanged hot breaths, John's right hand usurped a place on Sherlock's waist, while the left one furtively travelled down. As his hand palmed the place between the detective's thighs gently, the low chuckle escaped from Sherlock's throat and the tall man put his own hand on his belly…

And in the next second, Sherlock flinched violently and all but screamed.

“Wha…? You..? You don't like that?” Recoiling back, John let him go in a flash, looking at him bug-eyed. 

“No!” Red like a tomato, Sherlock barked back. “It's the mussel! It slipped into my underwear… right there! Eww! So gross!”

And in a state of near panic, he undid his zip and started to tear down his belt, trying to get out of his trousers as quickly as possible. He kept cursing the innocent bivalve with gusto, while John flung back his head and laughed uproariously.

Still, as more and more of Sherlock's skin became visible, a look of cunning reverie spread over his face. His tongue slipped out and lashed over his lips sensuously.

He receded towards the door and locked them tightly, closing heavy draperies over the glass wall. After that, he turned on his heel resolutely.

“Wait, Sherlock.” He said with a broad smile. “I'll help you with that.”

The moment he stepped up to Sherlock, the detective threw his trousers aside with an annoyed gesture. John caught his wrists into a gentle grip and slowing down his frantic movements that way, he murmured: “Easy, easy!”

Releasing Sherlock again, he lifted up the hem of his shirt and his palm deftly slipped behind the waistband of Sherlock's boxer briefs.

“Ooh!” Sherlock rumbled in a low tone and went slack against the wall of the cottage, looking bewildered and rapt at the same time.

John found the stubborn mollusc without any big problem. It really got stuck there, behind the full, firm balls, in the most improbable nest possible. He gently extracted it and pulled it out of his friend's underwear, tittering like a teenager in the process.

“Don't laugh!” Sherlock growled at him, knitting his brows into two frustrated lines.

Standing on tiptoes, John kissed these soft black daubs and his cheeky fingers once again strayed behind the band of Sherlock's briefs. 

He seized the solid, warm mass he omitted earlier - Sherlock's manhood - slightly damp and still pliant in his hand. 

Sherlock's deep, hearty moan resounded above him anew. Sherlock's wiry hands flew up and after an awkward moment, rested on John's shoulders.

Due to his inexperience in carnal knowledge, he was aroused very quickly. John rubbed the length of his member up and down for a few times and Sherlock hardened immediately, breathing heavily and watching the proceedings with fascinated abandon. Drops of sweat glistened on his temples like little pearls. His excitement was palpable in the air too, the heavy, salty, very masculine scent permeated the atmosphere in the small room like the perfume mixed of sea and seaweed tones.

John stilled his hand for a while and relished the sight, thoroughly satisfied with the result. Two strong thighs, pale like alabaster pillars, were adorned with a tuft of wild, jet black curls. Heavy, dark red member grew from the forest of soft curly hair, resembling some exotic plant or a bizarre mer-creature, slick with glossy coating of the smeared precum.

All in all, the whole arrangement was beautiful to look at. John stretched out his hand and touched the marble perfection of one of the inner thighs, caressing it lightly.

Sherlock's inclined his head, put his mouth near John's ear and breathed few low, throaty words into it: “You are a tease, do you know that?”

He kissed John roughly, letting his teeth be felt and then he started to move his hips, trusting forth, his member bobbing in front of John's fly, every gesture signalling his impatience.

John yielded to the temptation. He unhooked the button of his jeans, undid his zip and released his own cock from the confines of the underwear - large, dusky pink and already prepared for an action. 

He seized his own manly pride and pressed it alongside Sherlock's, rubbing them against each other and bringing pleasure to them both. The fingers of his other hand were clenched around Sherlock's slim waist and his forehead leaned against Sherlock's heaving chest, between the open lapels of his unbuttoned shirt. 

It didn't last long.

“John!” Sherlock's strained voice carried a note of warning this time and the rhythmical movements of his hips slowly gave way to erratic spasms.

“Let it…” John gasped red in the face and pumping hard now. “Let it all out! Come on!”

The strangled sound escaped from Sherlock's throat and in the next second, the aggressive red flower of his cock bloomed with the burst of sticky white cum. It came out in a long, rich bursts and its translucent flow painted John's exposed belly like a hot salty varnish.

John immediately let go of Sherlock, seized him with unexpected force and turned him around without notice, pressing him against the wall. He stuck his large prick among two lush buttocks which were bared to him that way and thrust forth firmly. Sherlock cried out in alarm, as more cum escaped out of his leaking cock. John thrust into him one last time, then released the thick shot of ejaculate, filling Sherlock's backside with his share of the sticky white cream.

When it was all over, John cavalierly picked up Sherlock's briefs, laying discarded on the floor and cheekily cleaned the wet disaster from his front, tending to Sherlock similarly in the next moment.

Sherlock, looking languid, with well-relaxed limbs, smirked and remarked with interest: “That was my only spare, you know? How should I go outside now?”

“You really want to do that?” John replied, throwing the soiled briefs to the corner. “It started raining a minute ago and the road will be quite muddy, I'm afraid. Besides, it looks like a storm is coming, so the 'copter is out of the question too, so it seems. And there's a nice bed upside. Untried by you yet. Don't you want to at least cast a look on it after you paid for it?”

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched. He scratched his cheek covered with a light stubble absentmindedly and shrugged his shoulders afterwards, the cunning twinkle dancing in his eyes.

“All right, you have persuaded me. I must check it out before I leave. Lead on!”

John grinned from ear to ear and flew up the stairs excitedly.

The little mussel remained in the room alone, resting peacefully in a glass of water placed next to the still whirring PC.

**Author's Note:**

> The quote in my story comes from the tale of two famous, enchanted and fated Celtic lovers Tristan and Iseult, whose adventures were very popular in The Middle Ages. The full citation speaks of the inevitability of death if these two lovers were separated and it likens the lovers to the hazel and the honeysuckle:
> 
> For those two, it´s just like with  
> The sweet honeysuckle vine  
> That on the hazel tree will twine:  
> When it fastens, slips itself right  
> Around the trunk, ties itself tight,  
> Then the two survive together.  
> But should anyone try to sever  
> Them, the hazel dies right away  
> And the honeysuckle the same day.  
> Fair friend, that´s how it´s with us (too):  
> Nor you without me, nor me without you
> 
> The full translation of Marie de France´s poem is available on the internet.


End file.
